 CHAPTER XIII. THE ROOM BELOW I ran into the sitting-room to discover Naylen Smith craning out of a now widely-opened window. The blind had been drawn up, I did not know by whom, and, leaning out beside my friend, I was in time to perceive some bright yellow object moving down the grey stone wall. Almost instantly it disappeared from sight in the yellow banks below. Smith leapt around in a whirl of excitement. Come in, Petrie, he cried, seizing my arm. You remain here, Weymouth, don't leave these rooms whatever happens. We ran out into the corridor. For my own part I had not the vaguest idea what we were about. My mind was not yet fully recovered from the frightful shock which it had sustained and the strange words of the dying man that golden pomegranates had increased my mental confusion. Smith apparently had not heard them, for he remained grimly silent, as side by side we raced down the marble steps to the corridor immediately below our own. Although amid the hideous turmoil to which I had awakened I had noted nothing of the hour. Evidently the night was far advanced. Not a soul was to be seen from one end of the vast corridor in which we stood, until, on the right hand side, in about half way along, a door opened and a woman came out hurriedly carrying a small handbag. She wore a veil so that her features were but vaguely distinguished, and her every movement was agitated, and this agitation perceptibly increased when turning she perceived the two of us bearing down upon her. Nailin Smith, who had been audibly counting the doors along the corridors we passed them, seized the woman's arm without ceremony and pulled her into the apartment she'd been on the point of quitting, closing the door behind us as we entered. Smith, I began for heaven's sake, what are you about? You shall see, Petrie, he snapped. He released the woman's arm and, pointing to an armchair nearby, be seated, he said sternly. Speechless with amazement I stood with my back to the door watching this singular scene. Our captive, who wore a smart walking costume and whose appearance was indicative of elegance and culture, so far had uttered no word of protest, no cry. Now whilst Smith stood rigidly pointing to the chair, she seated herself as something very like composure, and placed a leather bag upon the floor beside her. The room in which I found myself was one of a sweet almost identical with our own, but from what I had gathered in a hasty glance around, it bore no signs of recent tendency. The window was widely opened, and upon the floor lay a strange-looking contrivance apparently made of aluminium. A large grip open stood beside it, and from this some portions of a black coat and other garments protruded. Now, madam, said Naylon Smith, will you be good enough to raise your veil? Silently, unprotestingly, the woman obeyed him, raising her gloved hands and lifting the veil from her face. The features revealed were handsome in a hard fashion, but heavily made up. Our captive was younger than I had ever too supposed a blonde, her hair artificially reduced to the so-called Titian tint, that, despite her youth, her eyes with the black and lashes were full of world-weariness. Now she smiled cynically. Are you satisfied, she said, speaking unemotionally, or, holding up her wrists, would you lot tank off me? Naylon Smith, glancing from the open grip and the appliance beside it to the face of the speaker, began clicking his teeth together, whereby I knew him to be perplexed, and he stared across at me. You appear bemused, Petrie, he said, with certain irritation. Is this what mystifies you? Stooping, he picked up the metal contrivance and almost savagely jerked open the top section. It was a telescopic ladder, and more ingeniously designed than anything of the kind I had seen before. There was a sort of clamp attached to the base, and two sharply pointed hooks at the top. For reaching windows on an upper floor snapped my friend, dropping the thing with a clatter upon the carpet, an American device which forms part of the equipment of the modern hotel thief. He seemed to be disappointed, fiercely disappointed, and I found his attitude inexplicable. He turned to the woman who sat regarding him with that fixed, cynical smile. Who are you? He demanded, on what business have you with a seafan? The woman's eyes opened more widely, and the smile disappeared from her face. The seafan, she repeated slowly, or don't know what you mean, Inspector. I am not an inspector, Snapp Smith, and you know it well enough. You have one chance, you're last. So who were you to deliver the box, when, and where? But the blue eyes remained upraised to the grim, tanned face, with a look of wonder in them, which, if assumed, marked the woman a consummate actress. Who are you, she asked, in a low voice, and what are you talking about? Inactive I stood by the door, watching my friend, and his face was a fruitful study in perplexity. He seemed upon the point of an angry outburst, then staring intently into the questioning eyes upraised to his. He checked the words he would have uttered, and began to click his teeth together again. You are some serpent of Dr. Fu Manchu, he said. The girl frowned with a bewilderment which I could have sworn was not assumed, then. You said I had one chance a moment ago, she replied, but if you referred to by answering any of your questions, it is no chance at all. We've gone under, and I know it, and I'm not complaining, it's all in the game. There's a clear enough case against us, and I'm sorry. Unexpectedly, her eyes became filled with tears, which coursed down her cheeks, leaving little wakes of blackness from the makeup upon her lashes. Her lips trembled, and her voice shook. I'm sorry, I'll let him to do it. He'd never done anything, not anything big like this before, and he never would have done if he'd not met me. A look of perplexity upon Smith's face was increasing with every word that the girl uttered. You don't seem to know me, she continued, her emotion growing momentarily greater, and I don't know you, but they will know me at Bow Street. I urged him to do it, when he told me about the box to-day at lunch. He said that if it contained off as much as the Corrine treasure chest we could sail for America and be on the strait all the rest of our lives, and now something which had hitherto been puzzling me became suddenly evident. I had not removed the wig worn by the dead man, but I knew that he had fair hair, and when in his last moments he had opened his eyes there had been in the contorted face something faintly familiar. Smith, I cried excitedly, it is Lewison, Myrsteins' Clark, don't you understand? Don't you understand? Smith brought his teeth together with a snap and stared me hard in the face. I do, Petrie, I have been following a false scent. I do. The girl in the chair was now sobbing convulsively. He was tempted by the possibility of the box containing treasure. I ran on his acquaintance with this lady, who was evidently no stranger to felonious operations, led him to make the attempt with her assistance. But I found myself confronted by a new problem. What caused his death? His death? As a wild hysterical shriek the words smote upon my ears. I turned to see the girl rise, tottering from her seat. She began groping in front of her blindly as though a darkness had descended. You did not sigh, he was dead? She whispered, not dead, not— The words were lost in a wild peal of laughter, clutching at her throat she swayed and would have fallen had I not caught her in my arms. As I laid her insensible upon the city I met Smith's glance. I think I know that too, Petrie, he said gravely. End of CHAPTER XIII The Golden Pomegranates What was it that he cried out, demanded Naelyn Smith abruptly. I was in the sitting-room, and it sounded to me like pomegranates. We were bending over Lewison, for now the wig removed Lewison and it proved unmistakably to be, despite the puffy and pallid face. He said, The Golden Pomegranates. I replied, and laughed harshly. There were birds of delirium and cannot possibly have any bearing upon the manner of his death. I disagree. He strode out into the sitting-room. Weymouth was below, supervising the removal of the unhappy prisoner, and together Smith and I stood looking down at the brass box. Suddenly, I proposed to attempt to open it, said my friend. His words came as a complete surprise. For what reason, and why have you so subtly changed your mind? For a reason which I hope will presently become evident, he said, And as to my change of mind, unless I am greatly mistaken, the wily old Chinaman from whom I rested this treasure was infinitely more clever than I gave him credit for being, through the open window came faintly to my ears the chiming of Big Ben. The hour was a quarter to two. London's pulse was dimmed now, and around us that great city slept as soundly as it ever sleeps. Other sounds came vaguely through the fog, and beside Nailen Smith I sat and watched him at work upon the tulen-ner box. Every knob of the intricate design he pushed, pulled, and twisted, but without result. The night wore on, and just before three o'clock Inspector Weymouth knocked upon the door. I admitted him, and side by side the two of us stood watching Smith patiently pursuing his task. All conversation had ceased when, just as the mooted booming of London's clocks reached my ears again, and Weymouth pulled out his watch, there came a faint click, and I saw that Smith had raised the lid of the coffer. Weymouth and I sprang forward with one accord, and over Smith's shoulders peered into the interior. There was a second lid of some dull black wood, apparently of great age, and fastened to it so as to form knobs or handles, was an exquisitely carved pair of golden pomegranates. They ought to raise the wooden lid, Mr. Smith, cried Weymouth eagerly. Look! There is a hollow in each to accommodate the fingers. Aren't you going to open it? I demanded excitedly, aren't you going to open it? Might I invite you to accompany me into the bedroom yonder? For a moment he replied in a tone of studied reserve. You also, Weymouth? Smith leading, we entered the room where the dead man lay stretched upon the bed. Note the appearance of his fingers, directed Nail and Smith. I examined the peculiarity to which Smith had drawn my attention. The dead man's fingers were swollen extraordinarily. The index finger of either hand especially being oddly discoloured, as though bruised from the nail upward. I looked again at the ghastly face, then repressing a shudder, for the sight was not good to look upon. I turned to Smith, who was watching me expectantly with his keen steely eyes. From his pocket he took out a knife containing a number of implements, amongst them a hook-like contrivance. Have you a button-hook, Petrie? He asked. Or anything of that nature? How will this do? said the inspector, and he produced a pair of handcuffs. They were not wanted, he added, significantly. Better still, declared Smith. Reclosing his knife he took the handcuffs from Weymouth, and, returning to the sitting-room, opened them widely and inserted two steel points in the hollows of the golden pomegranates. He pulled. There was a faint sound of moving mechanism, and the wooden lid lifted, revealing the interior of the coffer. It contained three long bars of lead, and nothing else. Supporting the lid with the handcuffs, just pull the light over here, Petrie, said Smith. I did, as he directed. Look into these two cavities where one is expected to thrust one's fingers. Weymouth and I craned forward so that our heads came into contact. Oh, God! whispered the inspector. We know now what killed him. An eye the little cavity against the edge of the steel handcuff was the point of a needle, which evidently worked in an exquisitely made socket through which the action of raising the lid caused it to protrude. Underneath the lid, midway between the two pomegranates, as I saw by slowly moving the lamp, was a little hollow receptacle of metal communicating with the base of the hollow needles. The action of lifting the lid not only protruded the points but also operated the hypodermic syringe. Note, snapped Smith, that his voice was slightly hoarse. He removed the points of the bracelets. The box immediately reclosed with no sound other than a faint click. God forgive him, said Smith, glancing toward the other room, for he died in my stead. And Dr. Fu Manchu scores an undeserved failure. End of Chapter 14. Chapter 15 of The Hand of Fu Manchu. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Hand of Fu Manchu by Sax Romer. Chapter 15. Xarmy reappears. Come in, I cried. The door opened and a page-boy entered. A kibble for Dr. Paitre! I started up from my chair a thousand possibilities, some of a sort to bring dread to my heart instantly occurred to me. I tore open the envelope and, as one does, glanced first at the name of the sender. It was signed Caramena. Smith, I said hoarsely, glancing over the message, Caramena is on her way to England. She arrives by the nickel-bar to-morrow. Eh! cried Nalen Smith, in turn, leaping to his feet. She had no right to come alone, unless— The boy, open-mouthed, was listening to our conversation, and I hastily thrust a coin into his hand and dismissed him. As the door closed, unless what, Smith, I said, looking at my friend squarely in the eyes, unless she has learnt something, or is flying away from someone. My mind set in a whirl of hopes and fears, longings and dreads. What do you mean, Smith, I asked. This is the place of danger, as we know to our cost. She was safe in Egypt. Nalen Smith commenced one of his restless perambulations, glancing at me from time to time and frequently tugging at the lobe of his ear. Was, she safe in Egypt, he rapped. We are dealing, remember, with the sifan, which, if I am not mistaken, is a sort of illusian mystery holding some kind of dominion over the eastern mind, and boasting initiates throughout the Orient. It is almost certain that there is an Egyptian branch or group, call it what you will, of the damnable organization. But Dr. Fu Manchou. Dr. Fu Manchou, for he lives, Petrie, my own eyes bear witness to the fact. Dr. Fu Manchou is a sort of delegate from the headquarters. His prodigious genius will readily enable him to keep in touch with every branch of the movement, east and west. He pours to knock out his pipe into an ashtray, and to watch me for some moments in silence. He may have instructed his Cairo agents, he added significantly. God grant she get to England and safety, I whispered. Smith, can we make no move to round up the devils who defy us? Here in the very heart of civilized England, listen, you will not have forgotten the wild Cat Eurasian's army. Smith nodded. I recall the lady perfectly, he snapped. And lest my imagination has been playing me tricks, I have seen her twice within the last few days, once in the neighbourhood of this hotel and once in a cabin Piccadilly. You mentioned the matter at the time, said Smith shortly, but although I made inquiries, as you remember, nothing came of them. Nevertheless, I don't think I was mistaken. I feel in my very bones that the yellow hand of Fu Manchu was about to stretch out again, if only we could apprehend Zarmie. Nailin Smith lighted his pipe with care. If only we could, Petrie, he said, but dammit! He dashed his left fist into the palm of his right hand, we are doomed to remain inactive. We can only await the arrival of Karamina and see if she has anything to tell us. I must admit there are certain theories of my own which I haven't yet had an opportunity of testing. Perhaps in the near future such an opportunity may arise. How soon that opportunity was to arrive, neither of us suspected then, but fate is a merry trickster, and even as we spoke of these matters, events were brewing which were to lead us along strange paths. With such glad anticipations as my pen cannot describe their gladness not unmixed with fear, I retired to rest that night, scarcely expecting to sleep, so eager was I for the morrow. The musical voice of Karamina seemed to ring in my ears. I seemed to feel the touch of her soft hands and to detect as I drifted into the borderland betwixt reality and slumber, that faint exquisite perfume which from the first moment of my meeting with the beautiful Eastern girl had become to me inseparable from her personality. It seemed that sleep had but just claimed to me when I was awakened by someone roughly shaking my shoulder. I sprang upright, my mind alert to sudden danger. The room looked yellow and dismal, illuminated as it was by a cold light of dawn which crept through the window and with which competed the luminance of the electric lamps. Nalyn Smith stood at my bedside, partially dressed. Wake up, Petrie, he cried, your instincts serve you better than my reasoning. Hell's a foot, old man, even as you predicted it, perhaps in that same hour the yellow fiends were at work. What, Smith, what, I said, leaping out of bed, you don't mean. Not that, old man, he replied, clapping his hand upon my shoulder. There is no further news of her. But Weymouth is waiting outside. Sir Baldwin Frasier has disappeared. I rubbed my eyes hard and sought to clear my mind of the vapours of sleep. Sir Baldwin Frasier, I said, of Halfman Street, but what? God knows what, snapped Smith, but our old friend's army, or so it would appear, bore him off last night, and he has completely vanished, leaving practically no trace behind. Only a few sleeping servants were about as we descended the marble stairs to the lobby of the hotel where Weymouth was waiting us. I have a cab outside from the yard, he said. I came straight here to fetch you before going on to Half Moon Street. Quite right, snapped Smith, but are you sure the cab is from the yard? I have had painful experience of strange cabs recently. You can trust this one, said Weymouth, smiling slightly. It has carried me to the scene of many a crime. Hmm! said Smith. A dubious recommendation. We entered the waiting vehicle, and soon were passing through the nearly deserted streets of London. Only those workers whose toils began with a dawn or a foot at that early hour, and in the misty grey light the streets had an unfamiliar look, and wore an aspect of sadness and ill accord with the sentiments which now were stirring within me. For whatever might be the fate of the famous mental specialist, whatever the mystery before us, even though Doctor Fu Manchu himself malignantly active threatened our safety, Karamina would be with me again that day. Karamina, my beautiful wife to be! So selfishly occupied was I with these reflections that I paid little heed to the words of Weymouth, who was acquainting Nalen Smith with the facts bearing upon the mysterious disappearance of Sir Baldwin Frazier. Indeed, I was almost entirely ignorant upon the subject when the cab pulled up before the Surgeon's House in Half Moon Street. Here where all else spoke of a city yet sleeping, or but newly awakened, was wild unrest and excitement. Several servants were hovering about the whole eager to glean any scrap of information that might be obtainable, wild-eyed and curious, if not a little fearful. In the somber dining-room, with its heavy oak furniture and gleaming silver, Sir Baldwin's secretary awaited us. He was a young man, fair-haired, clean-shaven, and alert, but a real and ever-present anxiety could be read in his eyes. I am sorry, he began, to have been the cause of disturbing you at so early an hour, particularly since this mysterious affair may prove to have no connection with the matters which I understand are at present engaging your attention. Then Smith raised his hand deprecatingly. We are prepared, Mr. Logan, he replied, to travel to the uttermost ends of the earth at all times, if by doing so we can obtain even a meager clue to the enigma which baffles us. I should not have disturbed Mr. Smith's at Weymouth if I had not been pretty sure that there was Chinese devilry at work here, nor should I have told you as much as I have, Mr. Logan, he added, a humorous twinkle creeping into his blue eyes, if I had thought you could not be of use to us in unravelling our case. I quite understand that, said Logan, and now, since you have voted for the story first and refreshments afterwards, I shall tell you what little I know of the matter. Be as brief as you can, snapped Nailin Smith, starting up from the chair in which he had been seated and beginning restlessly to pace the floor before the open fireplace, as brief as is consistent with clarity. We have learned in the past that an hour or less sometimes means the difference between— He paused, glancing at Sir Baldwin's secretary. Between life and death, he added, Mr. Logan started perceptibly. You alarm me, Mr. Smith, he declared, for I can conceive of no earthly manner in which this mysterious eastern organization of which Inspector Weymouth speaks could profit by the death of Sir Baldwin. Nailin Smith suddenly turned and stared grimly at the speaker. I call it death, he said harshly, to be carried off to the interior of China, to be made a mere slave having no will but the great and evil man who already, already mark you, has already accomplished such things. But Sir Baldwin— Sir Baldwin Fraser, snapped Smith, is the undisputed head of his particular branch of surgery. Dr. Fu Manchu may have what he deems useful employment for such skill as his, but, glancing at the clock, we are wasting time. Your story, Mr. Logan. It was at about half past twelve last night, began the secretary, closing his eyes as if he were concentrating his mind upon certain past events, when a woman came here and inquired for Sir Baldwin. The butler informed her that Sir Baldwin was entertaining friends and that he could receive no professional visitors until the morning. She was so insistent, however, absolutely declining to go away, that I was sent for, I have rooms in the house, and I came down to interview her in the library. Be very accurate, Mr. Logan, interrupted Smith, in your description of this visitor. I shall do my best, pursued Logan, closing his eyes again in concentrated thought. She wore evening-dress of a fantastic kind, markedly oriental in character, and had large gold rings in her ears. A green embroidered shawl, with raised figures of white birds as a design, took the place of a cloak. It was certainly of eastern workmanship, possibly Arab, and she wore it about her shoulders with one corner thrown over her head, again something like a brenouse. She was extremely dark, had jet-black, frizzy hair, and very remarkable eyes. The finest of the type I have ever seen. She possessed beauty of a sort, of course, but without being exactly vulgar, it was what I may turn ostentatious. And as I entered the library, I found myself at a loss to define her exact place in society. You understand what I mean? We all nodded, comprehendingly, and awaited with intense interest the resumption of the story. Mr. Logan had vividly described the Eurasian Zami, the creature of Dr. Fu Manchu. When the woman addressed me, he continued, my surmise that she was some kind of half-caste, probably a Eurasian, was confirmed by her broken English. I shall not be misunderstood. A slight embarrassment became perceptible in his manner. If I say that the visitor quite openly tried to bewitch me, and, since we are all human, you will perhaps condone my conduct when I add that she succeeded in a measure, in as much as I consented to speak to Sir Baldwin, although he was actually playing bridge at the time. My eloquence ought to put it bluntly the extraordinary fee which the woman offered resulted in Sir Baldwin's agreeing to abandon his friends and accompany the visitor in a cab which was waiting to see the patient. And who was the patient, Rapp Smith? According to the woman's account, the patient was her mother, who had met with a street accident a week before. She gave the name of the consultant who had been called in, and who, she stated, had advised the opinion of Sir Baldwin. She represented that the matter was urgent, and that it might be necessary to perform an operation immediately in order to save the patient's life. But surely I interrupted in surprise Sir Baldwin did not take his instruments. He took his case with him, yes, replied Logan, for he in turn yielded to the appeals of the visitor. The very last words that I heard him speak as he left the house were to assure her that no such operation could be undertaken at such short notice in that way. Logan paused looking around at us a little wearily. And what aroused your suspicions? said Smith. My suspicions were aroused at the very moment of Sir Baldwin's departure, for as I came out onto the steps with him I noticed a singular thing. And that was, snapped Smith. Directly Sir Baldwin had entered the cab, the woman got out, replied Logan with some excitement in his manner, and reclosing the door took her seat beside the driver of the vehicle which immediately moved off. Nail and Smith glanced significantly at me. The cab trick again, Petrie, he said, scarcely a doubt of that. Then to Logan, anything else? This replied the secretary. I thought, although I could not be sure, that the face of Sir Baldwin peered out of the window for a moment as the cab moved away from the house, and that there was a strange expression upon it, almost a look of horror, but of course as there was no light in the cab, and the only illumination was that from the open door I could not be sure. And now tell Mr. Smith, said Weymouth, how you got confirmation of your fears. I felt very uneasy in my mind, continued Logan, for the whole thing was so irregular I could not rid my memory of the idea of Sir Baldwin's face looking out from the cab window. Therefore I rang up the consultant whose name our visitor had mentioned. Yes, cried Smith eagerly. He knew nothing whatever of the matter, said Logan, and I had no such case upon his books. That, of course, would mean a dreadful state of mind that I was naturally anxious to avoid making a fool of myself, and therefore I waited for some hours before mentioning my suspicions to any one, but when the morning came and no message was received I had determined to communicate with Scotland Jard. The rest of the mystery is for you, gentlemen, to unravel. What does it mean, said Nailen Smith, wearily, looking at me through the haze of tobacco smoke which lay between us. A well-known man like Sir Baldwin Frazier is decoyed away, undoubtedly by the woman's army, and up to the present moment not so much as a trace of him can be found. It is mortifying to think that with all the facilities of New Scotland Jard at our disposal we cannot trace that damnable cab. We cannot find the headquarters of the group. We cannot move. To sit here in active whilst Sir Baldwin Frazier, God knows for what purpose, is perhaps being smuggled out of the country as maddening, maddening. Then glancing quickly across to me, to think, I rose from my chair, head averted. A tragedy had befallen me which completely overshadowed all other affairs, great and small. Indeed its poignancy was not yet come to its most acute stage. The news was too recent for that. It had numbed my mind, dulled the pulsing life within me. The SS Nicobar of the Oriental Navigation Line had arrived at Tilbury at the scheduled time. My heart leaping joyously in my bosom I had hurried on board to meet Karamina. I have sustained some prool blows in my life, that I can state with candor that this which now befell me was by far the greatest and the most crushing I had ever been called upon to bear, a calamity dwarfing all others which I could imagine. She had left the ship at Southampton, and had vanished completely. Poor old Petrie, said Smith, and clapped his hands upon my shoulders in his old impulsive sympathetic way, don't give up hope, we are not going to be beaten. Smith, I interrupted bitterly, what chance have we? What chance have we? We know no more than a child unborn where these people have the hiding-place, and we haven't a shadow of a clue to guide us to it. His hands resting upon my shoulders, and his grey eyes looking straightly into mine. I can only repeat, old man, said my friend, don't abandon hope. I must leave you for an hour or so, and when I return possibly I may have some news. For long enough after Smith's departure I sat there, companioned only by wretched reflections, then further in action seemed impossible to move, to be up and doing, to be seeking, questing became an imperative necessity. Muffled in a heavy travelling coat I went out into the wet and dismal night, having no other plan in mind than that of walking on through the rain-swept streets, on and always on, in an attempt, vain enough, to escape from the deadly thoughts that pursued me. Without having the slightest idea that I had done so I must have walked along the strand, crossed Trafalgar Square, ceded up the hay-market to Piccadilly Circus, and commenced to trudge along at the Oriental rugs displayed in Mrs. Liberty's window, when an incident aroused me from the apathy of sorrow in which I was sunken. Tell the gab veller to drive to the north side of Wandsworth Common, said a woman's voice, a voice speaking in broken English, a voice which electrified me had me alert and watchful in a moment. I turned as the speaker entering a taxi cab that was drawn up by the pavement gave these directions to the door porter, who with open umbrella was in attendance. Just one glimpse I had of her as she stepped into the cab, but it was sufficient. Indeed the voice had been sufficient. All that sinuous shape and that live-swaying movement of the hips removed all doubt. It was Xarmy. As the cab moved off I ran out into the middle of the road where there was a rank and sprang into the first taxi waiting there. Follow the cab ahead! I cried to the man, my voice quivering with excitement. Look! You can see the number. There can be no mistake, but don't lose it for your life. It's worth a sovereign to you. The man, warming to my mood, cranked his engine rapidly and sprang to the wheel. I was wild with excitement now, and fearful lest the cab ahead should have disappeared, but fortune seemingly was with me for once, and I was not twenty yards behind when Xarmy's cab turned the first corner ahead. Through the gloomy street which appeared to be populated solely by streaming umbrellas we went, I could scarcely keep my seat, every nerve in my body seemed to be dancing, twitching. Eternally I was peering ahead, and when, leaving the well-lighted West End thoroughfare as we came to the comparatively gloomy streets of the suburbs, a hundred times I thought we had lost the track. But always in the pool of light cast by some friendly lamp, I could see the quarry again speeding on before us. At a lonely spot bordering the common, the vehicle which contains Xarmy stopped. I snatched up the speaking tube. Drive on! I cried, and pull up somewhere beyond. Not too far. The man obeyed, and presently I found myself standing in what was now become a steady downpour, looking back at the headlights of the other cab. I gave the driver his promised reward. Wait for ten minutes, I directed. Then if I have not returned you need wait no longer. I strode along the muddy, unpaved path to the spot where the cab now discharged was being slowly backed away into the road. The figure of Xarmy, unmistakable by reason of the lithe carriage, was crossing in the direction of a path which seemingly led across the common. I followed at a discreet distance. Realizing the tremendous possibilities of this reconnoiter, I seemed to rise to the occasion. My brain became alert and clear. Every facility was at its brightest, and I felt serenely confident in my ability to make the most of the situation. Xarmy went on and on along the lonely path. Not another pedestrian was in sight, and the rain walled in the pair of us, where comfort-loving humanity sought shelter from the inclement weather. We too moved out there in the storm, linked by a common enmity. I have said that my every faculty was keen, and have spoken of my confidence in my own alertness. My condition, as a matter of fact, must have been otherwise, and this belief in my power is merely symptomatic of the fever which consumed me for, as I was to learn. I had failed to take the first elementary precaution necessary in such a case. I, who tracked another, had not counted upon being tracked myself. A bag or sack reeking of some sickly perfume was dropped silently, accurately, over my head from behind. It was drawn closely about my throat. One muffled shriek, strangely compound of fear and execration I uttered. I was stifling, joking. I staggered, and fell. End of chapter 16. Chapter 17 of The Hand of Fu Manchu. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Hand of Fu Manchu by Sax Romer. Chapter 17. I Meet Dr. Fu Manchu. My next impression was of a splitting headache which, as memory remounted its throne, brought up a train of recollections. I found myself to be seated upon a heavy wooden bench set flat against a wall, which was covered with a kind of straw matting. My hands were firmly tied behind me. In the first agony of that reawakening I became aware of two things. I was in an operating room, for the most conspicuous item of its furniture was an operating table. Shaded lamps were suspended above it, and instruments, anesthetics, dressings, etc., were arranged upon a glass-top table beside it. Secondly, I had a companion. Seated upon a similar bench on the other side of the room was a heavily built man, his dark hair splashed with grey, as were his short, neatly trimmed beard and moustache. He too was pinioned, and he stared across the table with a glare in which a sort of stupefied wonderment predominated, but which was not free from terror. It was Sir Baldwin Frazier. Sir Baldwin, I muttered, moistening my parched lips with my tongue. Sir Baldwin! How? In his Dr. Petrie, is it not? He said, his voice husky with emotion. Dr. Petrie, my dear sir, in mercy, tell me what does this mean? I have been kidnapped, drugged, made the victim of an inconceivable outrage at the very door of my own house. I stood up, unsteadily. Sir Baldwin, I interrupted, you ask me what it means. It means that we are in the hands of Dr. Fu Manchu. Sir Baldwin stared at me wildly, his face was white and drawn with anxiety. Dr. Fu Manchu, he said, but my dear sir, this name conveys nothing to me, nothing. His manner momentarily was growing more distraught. Since my captivity began, I have been given the use of a singular suite of rooms in this place. Have received, I must confess, every possible attention. I have been waited upon by the she-devil who lured me here, but not one word other than a species of coarse badinage as she spoken to me. At times I have been tempted to believe that the fate which frequently befalls a specialist had befallen me. You understand? I quite understand. I replied, deli, there have been times in the past when I too have doubted my sanity in my dealings with a group who now holds us in their power. But, reiterated the other, his voice rising higher and higher, what does it mean, my dear sir? It is incredible, fantastic. Even now I find it difficult to disabuse my mind of that old haunting idea. Disabuse it at once, sir Baldwin, I said bitterly. The facts are as you see them. The explanation at any rate in your own case is quite beyond me. I was tracked. Ah, shh, someone is coming! We both turned and stared at an opening before which hung a sort of gaudily embroidered mat as the sound of dragging footsteps accompanied by a heavy tapping announced the approach of someone. The mat was pulled aside by Zarmie. She turned her head, flashing around the apartment at a glance of her black eyes, then held the drapery aside to admit the entrance of another. Supporting himself by the aid of two heavy walking sticks and painfully dragging his gaunt frame along, Dr. Fumanchou entered. I think I have never experienced in my life a sensation identical to that which now possessed me. Although Nalen Smith had declared Fumanchou was alive, yet I would have sworn upon oath before any jury summonable that he was dead, for with my own eyes I had seen the bullet enter his skull. Now, whilst I crouched against the matting-covered wall, Smith tightly clenched on my very hair quivering upon my scalp. He dragged himself laboriously across the room, the sticks going tap, tap, tap upon the floor, and the tall body enveloped in a yellow robe bent grotesquely, gruesomely, with every effort which he made. He wore a surgical bandage about his skull and its present seam to accentuate the height of the great dome-like brow, to throw into more evil prominence the wonderful satanic countenance of the man. His filmed eyes turning to right and left, he dragged himself to a wooden chair that stood beside the operating table and sank down upon it, breathing sibilantly, exhaustedly. Xami dropped the curtain and stood before it. She had discarded the dripping overall which she had been wearing when I had followed her across the common, and now stood before me with her black, frizzy hair unconfined and her beautiful, wicked face uplifted in a sort of cynical triumph. The big gold rings in her ears glittered strangely in the light of the electric lamps. She wore a garment which looked like a silken shawl draped about her in a wildly picturesque fashion, and her hands upon her hips lent back against the curtain, glancing defiantly from Sir Baldwin to myself. Those moments of silence which followed the entrance of the Chinese doctor live in my memory and must live there for ever. Only the laboured breathing of Fu Manchu disturbed the stillness of the place. Not a sound penetrated to the room, no one uttered a word then. Sir Baldwin Faisal began Fu Manchu in that indescribable voice, alternating between the sibilant and the guttural, your plumber star sat on fee for your toileters by my servant, whose hamondure shall be paid, and the gift of my personal gratitude be added to it. He turned himself with difficulty to address Sir Baldwin, and it became apparent to me that he was almost completely paralysed down one side of his body. Some little use he could make of his hand and arm, for he still clutched the heavy carbon stick, but the right side of his face was completely immobile, and rarely had I seen anything more ghastly than the effect produced upon that wonderful satanic countenance. The mouth from the centre of the thin lips only opened to the left as he spoke in a word seen in profile from where I sat, or rather crouched. It was the face of a dead man. Sir Baldwin Frazier uttered no word, but crouching upon the bench even as I crouched, stared, horror written upon every liniment at Dr. Fu Manchu. The latter continued, Your expedience, Sir Baldwin, will enable your wettly to diagnose my symptoms. Owing to the passage of a bullet along a portion of the third left frontal into the posterior parietal convolution, upon which from its lodgement in the skull it continues to press, hemiplegia of the right side has supervened. Aphasia is poison also. The effort of speech was ghastly. Beads of perspiration dued Fu Manchu's brow, and I marveled at the iron will of the man, whereby alone he forced his half-numbed brain to perform its function. He seemed to select his words elaborately, and by this monstrous effort of will to compel his partially paralyzed tongue to utter them. Some of the syllables were slurred, but nevertheless distinguishable. It was a demonstration of sheer force, unlike any I had witnessed, and it impressed me unforgettably. The warm overall of this enduroous potacle, he continued, would be an operation which I myself could undertake to perform successfully upon another. It is a matter of some delicacy as yours, Sir Baldwin, and slowly, horribly, turning the half-dead and the half-living head towards me. Your Dr. Petoy will apoliteate. In the event of Quamzey's horduey, death may supervene, failing this, prominent hemiplegia, or the film lifted from the green eyes and, for a moment, they flickered with transient horror, idiocy. Anyone of three of my pupils whom I might name could perform this operation with ease, but their services are not available. Only one, English surgeon, occurred to me in this connection, and you, Sir Baldwin. Again he slowly turned his head. Were he? Dr. Petoy will act as anesthetist, and your duties completed, you shall return to your home richer by the amount of stipulated. I have suitably prepared myself for the operation, and I cannot show you of the soundness of my heart. I may advise you, Dr. Petoy, again turning to me, that my contitution is a note to the use of opium. You will make dough allowance for this. Mr. Liking Sue, a graduate of Canton, will act as a do-wasa. He turned laboriously to Xami. She clapped her hands and held the curtain aside. A perfectly immobile Chinaman, whose age I was unable to guess, and who wore white overall, entered, bowed composately to Frazier and myself, and began in a matter of fact way to prepare the dressings. End of Chapter 17. Chapter 18 of the Hand of Fu Manchu. The Hand of Fu Manchu by Saxe Romer. CHAPTER 18. QUEEN OF HEARTS. Sir Baldwin Foisa said Fu Manchu, interrupting a wild outburst from the former. Your wafu is dictated by insufficient knowledge of your surroundings. You have found yourself in a place strange to you, a place to which no clue can lead your friends. In the absolute power of a man, myself, who knows no law other than his own, and that of those associated with him. Naturally, sir Baldwin, you stand in China. And in China, we know how to exact obedience. You are not a wafu's, for Dr. Petrie will tell you something of my wire jackets and my files. I saw Sir Baldwin Frazier blanch. He could not know what I knew of the significance of those words, my wire jackets, my files, but perhaps something of my own horror communicated itself to him. You are not a wafu's, continued Fu Manchu softly. My only fear for you is that the operation may prove unsuccessful. In that event, not even my own great glummancy could save you. For by a watcher of your failure, I should be barless to intervene. He paused for some moments, staring directly at the surgeon. There are doors within the sound of my voice, he added, sibilantly, who would flail or arrive in the lamentable event of your philech, who would cast your fled body. He paused, waving one quivering fist above his head, to the lats, to the lats. Sir Baldwin's forehead was bathed in perspiration now. It was an incredible and gruesome situation, and nightmare become reality. But whatever my own case, I could see that Sir Baldwin Frazier was convinced. I could see that his consent would no longer be withheld. Your, my dear Flynn, said Fu Manchu, turning to me and resuming his studied and painful composure of manner, were also consent. Within my heart of hearts I could not doubt him. I knew that my courage was not of a quality high enough to sustain the frightful ordeal summoned up before my imagination by those words, my philes, my wire jackets. In the event, however, of any little obstinacy, he added, another were plead or fuel. A chill like that old death descended upon me, as for a second time, Xami clapped her hands, pulled the curtain aside, and Karamina was thrust into the room. There comes a blank in my recollections. Long after Karamina had been plucked out again by the two muscular brown hands which clutched her shoulders from the darkness beyond the doorway, I seemed to see her standing there, in her close-fitting travelling dress. Her hair was unbound, dishevelled, her lovely face pale to the lips, and her eyes, her glorious, terror-bright eyes looked fully into mine. Not a word did she utter, and I was stricken dumb as one who has plucked the flower of silence. Only those wondrous eyes seemed to look into my soul, searing, consuming me. Thuman Chu had been speaking for some time ere my brain began again to record his words. And this magnanimity came deli to my ears, extends to you, Dr. Picre, because of my esteem. I have little cause to love Karamina, his voice quivered furiously, but she can yet be obvious to me, and I would not harm a hair of her beautiful head, except in the event of your obstinacy. Shall we then, Dr. Thuman, your immediate flutter upon the turn of a card, as the game-star within me, within every one of my race, suggests? Yes, yes, came hoarsely. I fought mentally to restore myself to a full knowledge of what was happening, and I realised that the last words had come from the lips of Sir Baldwin Frazier. Dr. Picre, Frazier said, still in the same horse, unnatural voice, what else can we do? At least take the chance of covering your freedom, for how otherwise can you hope to serve your friend? God knows, I said, Dali, do as you wish, and cared not to what I had agreed. Plunging his hand beneath his white overall, the Chinaman, who had been referred to as Lai King Su, calmly produced a pack of cards, unemotionally shuffled them, and extended the pack to me. I shook my head grimly, for my hands were tied. Picking up a lancet from the table, the Chinaman cut the cords which bound me, and again extended the pack. I took a card and laid it on my knee without even glancing at it. Fu Manchu, with his left hand in turn selected a card, looked at it, and then turned its face towards me. It was seem, Dr. Picre, he said calmly, that you are fated to remain here as my guest. You will have the felicity of al-Azading beneath the same roof as Karamina. The card was the name of diamonds. Conscious of a sudden excitement, I snatched up the card from my knee. It was the Queen of Hearts. For a moment I tasted exultation, and I tossed it upon the floor. I was not fool enough to suppose that the Chinese doctor would pay his debt of honour and release me. Your star, above mine, said Fu Manchu, his calm and ruffled. I place myself in your hands, Sir Baldwin. Assisted by his unemotional compatriot, Fu Manchu discarded the yellow robe, revealing himself in a white singlet in all his gaunt ugliness, and extended his frame upon the operating table. Lai King Su ignited the large lamp over the head of the table, and from his case took out a trepine. Other points for your guidance from my own confluable thar of experience are written out glilly in the notebook which lies upon the table. His voice now was tongless, emotionless, as though his part in the critical operation about to be performed were that of a spectator, no trace of nervousness or fear could I discern. His pulse was practically normal. How I shuddered as I touched his yellow skin. How my very soul rose up in revolt. There is the bullet. Quick. Steady, Petrie. Sir Baldwin Frazier, keen, cool, deft was metamorphosed, was the enthusiastic, brilliant surgeon whom I knew and revered, and another than the nerveless captive who, but a few moments ago, had stared panic-stricken at Dr. Fu Manchu. Although I had met him once or twice professionally, I had never hitherto seen him operate, and his method was little short of miraculous. It was stimulating, inspiring, with an airing touch he whittled madness-death from the very throne of reason, of life. Now was the crucial moment of his task, and with its coming, every light in the room suddenly failed, went out. My God! whispered Frazier in the darkness. Quick! Quick! Lights! Anything! There came a faint click, and a beam of white light was directed steadily upon the patient's skull. Liking Sue, unmoved, held an electric torch in his hand. Frazier and I set to work in a fierce battle to fend off death who already outstretched his pinions over the insensible man, to fend off death from the arch-murderer, the enemy of the white-racers, who lay there at our mercy. It seems you'll want to pick me up, said Zarmie. So Baldwin Frazier collapsed into the cane-arm chair. Only a matting curtain separated us from the room wherein he had successfully performed perhaps the most wonderful operation of his career. I could not have lasted out another thirty seconds, Petrie, he whispered. The events which led up to it had exhausted my nerves, and I had no reserve to call upon. If that last, he broke off, the sentence uncompleted, and eagerly seized the tumbler containing brandy and soda, which the beautiful, wicked-eyed Eurasian passed to him. She turned, and prepared a drink for me with the insolent insouciance which never deserted her. I emptied the tumbler at a draught. Even as I set the glass down, I realized too late that it was the first drink I had ever permitted to pass my lips within an abode of Dr. Fu Manchu. I started to my feet. Frazier! I muttered. You have been drugged! We— You'll sit down, came Zarmie's husky voice, and I felt her hands upon my breast, pushing me back into my seat. You're very tired. You go to sleep. Petrie! Dr. Petrie! The words broke in through the curtain of unconsciousness. I strove to arouse myself. I felt cold and wet. I opened my eyes, and the world seemed to be swimming dizzily about me. Then a hand grasped my arm roughly. Race up! Race up, Petrie, and thank God you are alive! I was sitting beside Sir Bourbon Frazier on a wooden bench under a leafless tree from the ghostly limbs whereof rain trickled down upon me. In the grey light, which I thought must be the light of dawn, I discerned other trees about us, and an open expanse, tree-dotted stretching into the misty greyness. Where are we? I muttered. Where? Unless I am greatly mistaken, replied my bedraggled companion, and I don't think I am, for I attended a consultation in this neighborhood less than a week ago, or somewhere to the west side of Wandsworth Common. He ceased speaking, and uttered a suppressed cry. There came a jangling of coins, and dimly I saw him to be staring at a canvas bag of money which he held. Merciful heavens, he said. Am I mad? What did I merely perform that operation? And can this be my fee? I laughed loudly, wildly, plunging my wet cold hands into the pockets of my rain-soaked overcoat. In one of them my fingers came in contact with a piece of cardboard. It had an unfamiliar feel, and I pulled it out, peering at it in the dim light. Well, I'm damned, muttered Frazier. Then I'm not mad, after all! It was the Queen of Hearts. The Hand of Fu Manchu by Sax Romer. CHAPTER XIX ZAGAZIG Fully two weeks elapsed, Air Nailand Smith's arduous labours at last met with a slight reward. For a moment the curtain of mystery surrounding the seafan was lifted, and we had a glimpse of that organisation's elaborate mechanism. I cannot better commence my relation of the episodes associated with the Zagazig's cryptogram, than from the moment when I found myself bending over a prostrate form extended upon the table in the inspector's room at the River Police Depot. It was that of a man who looked like Alaska, who wore an ill-fitting slop-shop suit of blue, soaked and stained and clinging hideously to his body. His dank black hair was streaked upon his low brow, and his face, although it was not notable for a sort of evil leer, had assumed in death another and more dreadful expression. Asphyxiation had accounted for his end beyond doubt, that there were marks about his throat of clutching fingers, his tongue protruded, and the look of the dead eyes was appalling. He was amongst the piles upholding the old wharf at the back of the joy-shop, said Smith, tersely, turning to the police officer in charge. Exactly, was the reply. The incoming tide had jammed him right up under a cross-beam. What time was that? Well, at high tide last night. Hueson, returning with a ten o'clock boat, noticed the moonlight glittering upon the knife. The knife to which the inspector referred possessed a long-curved blade of a kind with which I had become terribly familiar in the past. The dead man still clutched the hilt of the weapon in his right hand, and it now lay with the blade resting crosswise upon his breast. I stared in a fascinated way at this mysterious and tragic flotsam of old Thames. Glancing up, I found Naelyn Smith's grey eyes watching me. You see the mark, Petrie? He snapped. I nodded. The dead man upon the table was a Burmese dacquot. What do you make of it? I said slowly. At the moment, replied Smith, I scarcely know what to make of it. You are agreed with the divisional surgeon that the man, unquestionably a dacquot, died not from drowning, but from strangulation. From evidence we have heard, it would appear that the encounter, which resulted in the body being hurled into the river, actually took place upon the wharf end beneath which he was found. And we know that a place formerly used by the Seafan group, in other words, by Dr. Fu Manchu, adjoins the wharf. I am tempted to believe that this, he nodded towards the ghastly and sinister object upon the table, was a servant of the Chinese doctor. In other words, we see before us one whom Fu Manchu has rebuked for some shortcoming. I shuddered coldly, familiar as I should have been with the methods of the dread Chinaman, with his callous disregard of human suffering, of human life, of human law. I could not reconcile my ideas. The ideas of a modern ordinary middle-class practitioner, with these far-eastern devouries which were taking place in London. Even now, I sometimes found myself doubting the reality of the whole thing. Found myself reviewing the history of the Eastern doctor, and of the horrible group of murderers surrounding him, with an incredulity almost unbelievable in one who had actually been in contact, not only with the servants of the Chinaman, but with the sinister Fu Manchu himself. Then to restore me to the grips with reality would come the thought of Karimena, the beautiful girl whose love had brought me seemingly endless sorrow, and whose love for me had brought her once again into the power of that mysterious, implacable being. This thought was enough. With its coming fantasy vanished, and I knew that the dead Dakwit, his great curved knife yet clutched in his hand, the yellow menace hanging over London, over England, over the civilised world, the absence, the heart-breaking absence of Karimena, all were real, all were true, all were part of my life. Naelensmith was standing, staring vaguely before him, and tugging at the lobe of his left ear. Come along, he snapped suddenly. We have no more to learn here. The clue of the mystery must be sought elsewhere. There was that in his manner whereby I knew that his thoughts were far away, as we filed out from the River Police depot to the cab which awaited us, holding from his overcoat pocket a copy of a daily paper. Have you seen this, Weymouth, he demanded? With a long, nervous index finger he indicated a paragraph on the front page which appeared under the heading of personal. Weymouth bent frowningly over the paper, holding it close to his eyes, for this was a gloomy morning, and the light of the cab was poor. Such things don't enter into my sphere, Mr. Smith, he replied, but no doubt the proper department at the yard have seen it. I know they have seen it, snapped Smith, but they have also been unable to read it. Weymouth looked up in surprise. Indeed, he said. Are you interested in this, then? Very. Have you any suggestion to offer respecting it? Moving from my seat, I also bent over the paper and read in growing astonishment the following. Zagazig, Z-A-G-A, semi-colon, Z-colon, I-G-A-A, A-G-A-Z, semi-colon, I-Semi-colon, G-colon, Z-A-G-A-Z, semi-colon, I-colon, G-Semi-colon, Z, comma, comma, A-Semi-colon, G-G, Z-I-Semi-colon, G-Semi-colon, Z, comma, A-G-colon, A-Z-I-Semi-colon, G-colon, Z-A-G-Semi-colon, A-colon, Z, comma, I-G-colon, Z, comma, A-G- comma, A-colon, Z, comma, I-G, full stop. This is utterly incomprehensible. It can be nothing but some foolish practical joke. It consists merely of the words Zagazig, repeated six or seven times, which can have no possible significance. Can't it? Snapsmith? Well, I said, what is Zagazig to do with Fu Manchu, or to do with us? Zagazig, my dear Petrie, is a very unsavoury Arab town in Lower Egypt, as you know. He returned the paper to the pocket of his overcoat, and noting my bewildered glance burst into one of his sudden laughs. I think I'm talking nonsense, he said. Well, as a matter of fact, that message in the paper has been puzzling me since it appeared yesterday morning, and at last I think I see the light. He pulled out his pipe and began rapidly to load it. I have been growing careless of late Petrie, he continued, and no hint of merriment remained in his voice. His gaunt face was drawn grimly, and his eyes glittered like steel. In a future I must avoid going out alone at night as much as possible. Inspector Weymouth was staring at Smith in a puzzled way, and certainly I was every wit as mystified as he. I am disposed to believe, said my friend in his rapid, incisive way, that the daiquid met his end at the hands of a tall man, possibly dark and almost certainly clean-shaven. If this missing personage wears on chilly nights a long tweed travelling coat, and affects soft grey hats of the Stetson pattern, I shall not be surprised. Weymouth stared at me and frank bewilderment. By the way, Inspector added Smith, a sudden gleam of inspiration entering his keen eyes. Did I not see that the S.S. and Amon arrived recently? The Oriental Navigation Company's boat inquired Weymouth in a hopeless tone. Yes, she docked yesterday evening. If Jack Forsythe is still chief officer, I shall look him up, declared Smith. You will call his brother Petrie. Naturally, since he was done to death in my presence, I replied, for the words awoke memories of one of Dr. Fu Manchu's most ghastly crimes, o'ers associated in my mind with the cry of a night-hawk. The divine aflatish should never be neglected, announced Naelyn Smith didactically, wild though its promptings may seem. I saw little of Naelyn Smith for the remainder of that day. Presumably he was following those promptings to which he had referred, although I was unable to conjecture whether they were leading him. Then towards dusk he arrived in a perfect whirl, figuratively sweeping me off my feet. Yet you go to Petrie, he cried, you forget that we have a most urgent appointment. Beyond doubt I had forgotten that we had any appointment whatever that evening, and some surprise must have shown on my face for, really, you are becoming very forgetful, my friend continued, you know we can no longer trust the phone, I have to leave certain instructions for Weymouth at the rendezvous. There was a hidden significance in his manner, and my memory harking back to an adventure which we had shared in the past I suddenly glimpsed the depths of my own stupidity. He suspected the presence of an eavesdropper. Yes, incredible though it might appear, we were spied upon in the new Louvre, agents of the seafan of Dr. Fu Manchu were actually within the walls of the great hotel. We hurried out into the corridor and descended by the lift to the lobby. Monsieur Samaquan, long famous as maitreux d'hôtel of one of Cairo's fashionable cairns, and now principal of the new Louvre, greeted us with true Greek courtesy. He trusted that we would be present at some charitable function or other to be held at the hotel on the following evening. If possible, Monsieur Samaquan, if possible, said Smith. We have many demands upon our time. Then abruptly to me, come Petrie, we will walk as far as Charing Cross and take a cab from the rank there. The whole party can call you a cab," said Monsieur Samaquan, solicitous for the comfort of his guests. Thanks, Snap Smith, we prefer to walk a little way. Passing along the strand, he took my arm and speaking very close to my ear. That place is alive with spies, Petrie. He said, or if there are only a few of them they are remarkably efficient. Not another word could I get from him, although I was eager enough to talk, because one dearer to me than all else in the world was in the hands of that damnable organization we knew as the C-Fan. Until arrived at Charing Cross, he walked out to the cab rank and— Jump in! He snapped. He opened the door of the first cab on the rank. Drive to J. Smith, Kennington! He directed the man. In something of a mental stupor I entered and found myself seated beside Smith. The cab made off towards Trafalgar Square then swung around into Whitehall. Look behind! cried Smith, intense excitement expressed in his voice. Look behind! I turned and peered through the little square window. The cab which had stood second upon the rank was closely following us. We are tracked, snapped my companion, if further evidence were necessary of the fact that our every movement is watched, here it is. I turned to him, momentary little loss for words, then. Was this the object of our journey? I said, your reference to a rendezvous was presumably addressed to a hypothetical spy? Partly he replied, I have a plan, as you will see in a moment. I looked again from the window in the rear of the cab. We were now passing between the House of Lords and up the back of Westminster Abbey, and fifty yards behind us the pursuing cab was crossing from Whitehall. A great excitement grew up within me and a greater curiosity respecting the identity of our pursuer. What is the place for which we are bound, Smith? I asked rapidly. It is a house which I chanced to notice a few days ago, and I marked it as useful for such a purpose as our present one. You will see what I mean when we arrive. On we went, following the course of the river, then turned over Vauxhall Bridge, an on-down Vauxhall Bridge road into a very dreary neighbourhood where gasometers formed the notable feature of the landscape. That's the oval just beyond, said Smith suddenly, and here we are. In a narrow cul-de-sac, which apparently communicated with the boundary of the famous cricket-ground the cabman pulled up, Smith jumped out and paid the fare. Pull back into that court with the iron posts, he directed the man, and wait there for me. Then come on, Petrie, he snapped. Side by side we entered the wooden gate of a small detached house, or more properly, cottage, and passed up the tiled path toward a sort of side entrance which apparently gave access to the tiny garden. At this moment I became aware of two things. The first, that the house was an empty one. And the second, that someone who had quitted the second cab, which I had heard pull up at no great distance behind us, was approaching stealthily along the dark and uninviting street, walking upon the opposite pavement and taking advantage of the shadow of a high wooden fence which skirted it for some distance. Smith pushed the gate open, and I found myself in a narrow passageway in almost complete darkness. When my friend walked confidently forward turned the angle of the building and entered the miniature wilderness which had once been a garden. In here, Petrie, he whispered, he seized me by the arm and pushed open a door and thrust me forward down two stone steps into absolute darkness. Walk straight ahead, he directed, still in the same intense whisper, and you will find a locked door having a broken panel. Watch through the opening for anyone who may enter the room beyond, but see that your presence is not detected. Where I say or do, don't stir until I actually rejoin you." He stepped back across the floor and was gone. One glimpse I had of him silhouetted against the faint light of the open door, then the door was gently closed, and I was left alone in the empty house. Smith's methods frequently surprised me, but always in the past I had found that they were dictated by sound reasons. I had no doubt that an emergency unknown to me dictated his present course, but it was with my mind in a wildly confused condition that I groped for and found the door with a broken panel, and that I stood there in the complete darkness of the deserted building, listening. I can want to appreciate how the blind develop an unusually keen sense of hearing, for there in the blackness which at first was entirely unrelieved by any speck of light, I became aware of the fact by dint of tense listening that Smith was retiring by means of some gateway at the upper end of the little garden, and I became aware of the fact that a lane or court with which this gateway communicated gave access to the main road. Faintly I heard our discharged cab backing out from the cul-de-sac, then from some nearer place came Smith's voice speaking loudly. Come along, Petrie! He cried, there is no occasion for us to wait! Weymouth will see the note pinned on the door! I started, and was about to stumble back across the room when, as my mind began to work more clearly, I realized that the words had been spoken as a ruse, a favourite device of Naelyn Smith's. Rigidly I stood there and continued to listen. All right, cabman! Came more distantly now, back to the new Louvre! Jump in, Petrie! The cab went rattling away, as a faint light became perceptible in the room beyond the broken panel. Hitherto I had been able to detect the presence of this panel only by my sense of touch, and by means of a faint draft which blew through it. Now it suddenly became clearly perceptible. I found myself looking into what was evidently the principal room of the house, a dreary apartment with tatters of paper hanging from the walls and litter of all sorts lying about upon the floor and in the rusty fireplace. Someone had partly raised the front window and opened the shutters. A patch of moonlight shone down upon the floor immediately below my hiding-place, and furthermore enabled me vaguely to discern the disorder of the room. A bulky figure showed silhouetted against the dirty pains. It was that of a man who, leaning upon the windowsill, was peering intently in. Silently he had approached, and silently had raised the sash and opened the shutters. For thirty seconds or more he stood so, moving his head from right to left, and I watched him through the broken panel, almost holding my breath with suspense. Then fully raising the window the man stepped into the room and, first reclosing the shutters, suddenly flashed the light of an electric lamp all about the place. I was unable to discern him more clearly this mysterious spy who tracked us from the moment we had left the hotel. He was a man of portly build wearing a heavy fur-lined overcoat and having a soft-felt hat. The brimmed turned down so as to shade the upper part of his face. Moreover, he wore his fur collar turned up, which served further to disguise him, since it concealed the greater part of his chin. But the eyes which were now searching every corner of the room, the alert dark eyes, were strangely familiar. The black moustache, the clear-cut aquiline nose confirmed the impression. Our follower was Monsieur Samocan, manager of the new Louvre. I suppressed a gasp of astonishment. Small wonder that our plans had leaked out. This was a momentous discovery indeed. And as I watched the portly Greek, who was not only one of the most celebrated Métwa d'Ortelle in Europe, but also a creature of Dr. Fouman Chou, he cast the light in his electric lamp upon a note attached by means of a drawing-pin to the inside of the room door. I immediately divine that my friend must have pinned the note in its place earlier in the day. Even at that distance I recognised Smith's neat, illegible writing. Samocan quickly scanned the message scribbled upon the white page, then exhibiting an agility uncommon in a man of his bulk. He threw open the shutters again, having first replaced his lamp in his pocket. Climbed out into the little front garden, reclosed the window, and disappeared. A moment I stood lost to my surroundings plunged in a sea of wonderment concerning the damnable organisation which its tentacles extending I knew not wither, since new and unexpected limbs were ever coming to light sought no less a gold than yellow dominion of the world. I reflected how one man, Nalen Smith, alone stood between this powerful group and the realisation of their project when I was aroused by a hand grasping my arm in the darkness. I uttered a short cry of which I was instantly ashamed, for Nalen Smith's voice came. I startled you, eh, Petrie? Smith! I said, how long have you been standing there? I only returned in time to see our fenomen Cooper friend retreating through the window, he replied, but no doubt you had a good look at him. I had, I answered eagerly. It was Samocan. I thought so. I have suspected as much for a long time. Was this the object of our visit here? It was one of the objects, admitted Nalen Smith evasively. From some place not far distant came the sound of a restarted engine. The other, he added, was this, to enable Monsieur Samocan to read the note which I had pinned upon the door. End of CHAPTER XX. CHAPTER XXI. OF THE HAND OF FUMAN CHU. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. THE HAND OF FUMAN CHU BY SAXROMER. CHAPTER XXI. THE SECOND MESSAGE. Here you are, Petrie, said Nalen Smith, and he tossed across the table the folded copy of a morning paper. This may assist you in your study of the first Ziggazag message. I set down my cup and turned my attention to the personal column on the front page of the journal. A paragraph appeared therein conceived as follows. Zagazigg z-a-g-a-semi-colon z-colon i-colon g-semi-colon z-a-coma g-semi-colon a-coma z-semi-colon i-colon g-coma z-colon a-semi-colon g-coma z-i-semi-colon g-z-a-semi-colon g-a-z-i-semi-colon g-colon a-z-i-g I stayed across it, my friend, in extreme bewilderment. But Smith, I cried. These messages are utterly meaningless! Not at all, he wrapped back. Scotland Yard thought they were meaningless at first, and I must have met that they suggested nothing to me for a long time. But the dead Dacquot was the clue to the first Petrie, and the note pinned upon the door of the house near the oval as the clue to the second. Stupidly I continued to stare at him until he broke into a grim smile. Surely you understand, he said. You remember where the dead Berman was found? Perfectly. You know the street along which, ordinarily, one would approach the wharf? Three Colt Street. Three Colt Street, exactly. Well on the night that the Berman met his end I had an appointment in Three Colt Street with Weymouth. The appointment was made by phone from the new Louvre. My cab broke down, and I never arrived. I discovered later that Weymouth had received a telegram purporting to come from me putting off the engagement. I'm aware of all this. Nail and Smith burst into a loud laugh. But you still have fogged, he cried, and I'm hanged if I'll pilot you any farther. You have all the facts before you. They allies the first Zagazig message. Here is the second. And you know the context of the note pinned upon the door? It read, if you remember, remove patrol from Joy Shop neighbourhood. Have a theory. Wish to visit place alone on Monday night after one o'clock. Smith, I said, dully, I have a heavy stake upon this murderous game. His manner changed instantly. The tanned face grew grim and hard, but the steely eyes softened strangely. He bent over me, clapping his hands upon my shoulders. I know it, old man, he replied, and because it may serve to keep your mind busy during hours when otherwise it would be engaged with profitless sorrows, I invite you to puzzle out this business for yourself. You have nothing else to do until late to-night, and you can work undisturbed here at any rate. His words referred to the fact that, without surrendering our suite at the New Louvre Hotel, we had gone upon a visit of indefinite duration to a mythical friend, and now were courted in furnished chambers adjoining Fleet Street. We had remained at the New Louvre long enough to secure confirmation of our belief that a creature of Fumanchou spied upon us there, and now we only awaited the termination of the night's affair to take such steps as Smith might consider politic in regard to the sardonic Greek who presided over London's newest and most palatial hotel. Smith, setting out for New Scotland Yard in order to make certain final arrangements in connection with the business of the night, I began closely to study the mysterious zaga-zig messages, determined not to be beaten, and remembering the words of Edgar Allen Poe, the strange genius to whom we are indebted for the first workable system of deciphering cryptograms. It may well be doubted whether human ingenuity can construct an enigma of the kind which human ingenuity may not, by proper application, resolve. The first conclusion to which I was born was this, that the letters comprising the word zaga-zig were designed merely to confuse the reader and might be neglected, since, occurring as they did in regular sequence, they could possess no significance. I became quite excited upon making the discovery that the punctuation marks varied in almost every case. I immediately assumed that these constituted the cipher, and seeking for my key letter, E, that which most frequently occurs in the English language, I found the sign of a full stop to appear more frequently than any other in the first message, namely ten times, although it only occurred thrice in second. Nevertheless I was hopeful, until I discovered that in two cases it appeared three times in succession. There is no word in English nor as far as I am aware in any language where this occurs either in regard to E or any other letter. That unfortunate discovery seemed so holy to destroy the very theory upon which I relied that I almost abandoned my investigation there and then. Indeed I doubt I should ever have proceeded were it not that by a piece of pure guesswork I blundered on to a clue. I observed that certain letters at irregularly occurring intervals were set in capital, and I divided up the message into corresponding sections in the hope that the capitals might indicate the commencement of words. This accomplished I set out upon a series of guesses, basing these upon Smith's assurance that the death of the backward afforded a clue to the first message, and the note which he, Smith, had pinned upon the door a clue to the second. Such being my system, if I can honour my random attempts with the title, I take little credit to myself for the fortunate result. In short I determined, although E twice occurred where R should have been, that the first message from the thirteenth letter onward to the twenty-seventh edest i semicolon g colon hyphen zagaz semicolon i hyphen semicolon g semicolon hyphen z comma hyphen a semicolon hyphen g az i semicolon red three cult street. Endevouring now to eliminate the E where R should appear, I made another discovery. The presence of a letter in italics altered the value of the sign which followed it. From that point onward the task became child's play, and I should merely render this account tedious if I entered into further details. Both messages commenced with the name Smith as I early perceived, and a half an hour of close study gave me the complete sentences thus. One, Smith passing three cult street, twelve thirty Wednesday. Two, Smith going joy shop after one Monday. The word Zagazig was completed always and did not necessarily terminate with the last letter occurring in the cryptographic message. A subsequent inspection of this curious code had enabled Nail and Smith by a process of simple deduction to compile the entire alphabet employed by Dr. Fu Manchu's agent, Samakan, in communicating with his awful superior. With a little patience any one of my readers may achieve the same result, and I should be pleased to hear from those who succeed. This, then, was the outcome of my labours, and although it enlightened me to some extent I realised that I still had much to learn. The backward apparently had met his death at the very hour when Nail and Smith should have been passing along three cult street, a thoroughfare with an unsavoury reputation who had killed him. Tonight Samakan advised the Chinese doctor Smith would again be in the same dangerous neighbourhood. A strange thrill of excitement swept over me. I glanced at my watch. Yes! It was time for me to repair secretly to my post, for I, too, had business on the borders of Chinatown to-night. End of Chapter Twenty-One. Chapter Twenty-Two of the Hand of Fu Manchu. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. The Hand of Fu Manchu by Sax Romer. Chapter Twenty-Two. The Secret of the Wharf. I sat in the evil-smelling little room with its low, blackened ceiling, and strove to avoid making the slightest noise, but the crazy boards creaked beneath me with every movement. The moon hung low in an almost cloudless sky, for, following the spell of damp and foggy weather, a fallen temperature had taken place, and there was a frosty snap in the air to-night. Through the open window the moonlight poured in and spilled its pure luminance upon the filthy floor, but I kept religiously within the shadows, so posted, however, that I could command an uninterrupted view of the street from the point where it crossed the creek to that where it terminated at the gates of the deserted wharf. Above and below me the crazy building formerly known as the Joy Shop, and once the nightly resort of the Asiatic riff-raff from the docks, was silent, save for the squealing and scuffling of the rats. The melancholy lapping of the water frequently reached my ears, and a more or less continuous din from the wharves and workshops upon the further bank of the Thames, but in the narrow, dingy streets immediately surrounding the house, quietude rained, and no solitary footstep disturbed it. Once looking down in the direction of the bridge I gave a great start, for a black patch of shadow moved swiftly across the path, and merged into the other shadows bordering a high wall. My heart leapt momentarily, then in another instance the explanation of the mystery became apparent in the presence of a gaunt and prowling cat. The stowing a suspicious glance upward in my direction the animal slunk away toward the path bordering the cutting. By a devious route amid ghostly gasometers I had crept to my post in the early dusk, before the moon was risen, and already I was heartily weary of my passive part in the affair of the night. I had never before appreciated the multitudinous sounds, all of them weird and many of them horrible, which are within the compass of those great black rats, who find their way to England with cargoes from Russia and elsewhere. From the rafters above my head, from the wall recesses about me, from the floor beneath my feet proceeded a continuous and nerve-shattering concert, an unholy symphony which seemingly accompanied the eternal dance of the rats. Sometimes a faint splash from below would tell of one of the revelers taking the water, but save for the more distant throbbing of riverside industry, and rarer note of shipping, the mad discords of this rat satanalia alone claimed the ear. The hour was nigh now, when matters should begin to develop. I followed the chimes from the clock of some church nearby. I have never learnt its name, and was conscious of a thrill of excitement when they warned me that the hour was actually arrived. A strange figure appeared noiselessly, from I knew not where, and stood fully within view upon the bridge crossing the cutting, peering to right and left, in an attitude of listening. It was the figure of a bedraggled old woman, grey-haired, and carrying a large bundle tied up in what appeared to be a red shawl. Of her face I could see little, since it was shaded by the brim of her black bonnet, but she rested her bundle upon the low wall of the bridge, and to my intense surprise sat down upon it. She evidently intended to remain there. I drew back further into the darkness, for the presence of this singular old woman in such a place, and at that hour, could not well be accidental. I was convinced that the first actor in the drama had already taken the stage, whether I was mistaken or not must shortly appear. Crisp footsteps sounded upon the roadway, distantly, and from my left, nearer they approached, and nearer. I saw the old woman in the shadow of the wall glance once rapidly in the direction of the approaching pedestrian. For some occult reason the chorus of the rats is stilled. That firm and regular tread broke the intimate silence of the dreary spot. Now the pedestrian came within my range of sight. It was Nailand Smith. He wore a long tweed overcoat, with which I was familiar, and a soft felt hat, the brim pulled down all around in a fashion characteristic of him, and probably acquired during the years spent beneath the merciless son of Burma. He carried a heavy walking cane, which I knew to be a formidable weapon that he could wield to good effect. But despite the stillness about me, a stillness which had reigned uninterruptedly, save for the dance macabre of the rats since the coming of dusk, some voice within, ignoring these physical evidences of solitude, spoke urgently of lurking assassins, of murderous Easterns armed with those curved knives which sometimes flashed before my eyes in dreams, of a deathly menace which hid in the shadows about me, in the many shadows cloaking the holes and corners of the ramshackle building, draping arches, crannies, and portals to which the moonlight could not penetrate. He was abreast of the joy-shop now, and in sight of the ominous old witch huddled upon the bridge. He pulled up suddenly and stood looking at her. Coincidence with his doing so, she began to moan and sway her body to right and left as if in pain, then, She whined in a sing-song voice, Thank God you came this way to help a poor old woman! What is the matter? said Smith, tersely approaching her. I clenched my fist. I could have cried out. I was indeed hard put to it to refrain from crying out, from warning him, that his injunctions had been explicit, and I restrained myself by great effort, preserving silence and crouching there at the window, but with every muscle tensed, and a desire for action strong upon me. Or tripped up on a rough stone, sir, whined the old creature, And here I've been sitting, waiting for a policeman or someone to help me for more than an hour, I have. Smith stood looking down at her, his arms behind him, and in one gloved hand, swinging the cane. Where do you live, then? he asked. Not a hundred steps from here, kind gentleman, he replied in the monotonous voice. But I can't move, my left foot. It's only just through the guide's yonder. What? snapped Smith on the wharf. They let me have a room in the old building until he fled, she explained. Be help in a poor old woman, and God bless you. Come along, then. Stooping, Smith placed his arm around her shoulders, and assisted her to her feet. She groaned as if in great pain, but gripped her red bundle, and leaning heavily upon the supporting arm hobbled off across the bridge in the direction of the wharf gates at the end of the lane. Now at last a little action became possible, and having seen my friend push open one of the gates and assist the old woman to enter, I crept rapidly across the crazy floor, found the doorway, and with little noise, for I wore rubber-soled shoes, stole down the stairs into what had formerly been the reception room of the joy-shop. The melodorous sanctum of the old Chinaman, John Guy. Later darkness prevailed there, but momentarily flicking the light of a pocket lamp upon the floor before me, I discovered the furthest steps that were to be negotiated, and descended into the square yard which gave access to the path skirting the creek. The moonlight drew a sharp line of shadow along the wall of the house above me, but the yard itself was a well of darkness. I stumbled under the rotting brick archway, and stepped gingerly upon the muddy path that I must follow. One hand pressed to the damp wall, I worked my way cautiously along, for a full step had precipitated me into the foul water of the creek. In this fashion, and still enveloped by dense shadows, I reached the angle of the building. Then, at risk of being perceived, for the wharf and the river both were bathed in moonlight, I peered along to the left. Out onto the paved pathway communicating with the wharf came Smith, shepherding his tottering charge. I was too far away to hear any conversation that might take place between the two, but unless Smith gave the pre-arranged signal I must approach no closer. Thus, as one sees a drama upon the screen, I saw what now occurred, occurred with dramatic, lightning swiftness. Releasing Smith's arm, the old woman suddenly stepped back. At the instant that another figure, a repellent figure which approached, stooping, apish, with a sort of loping gait crossed from some spot invisible to me, and sprang like a wild animal upon Smith's back, it was a Chinaman wearing a short loose garment of the smock pattern and having his head bare so that I could see his pigtail coiled upon his yellow crown. That he carried a cord I perceived in the instant of his spring, and that he had whipped it about Smith's throat with unerring dexterity was evidenced by the one short strangled cry that came from my friend's lips. Then Smith was down, prone upon the crazy planking with the ape-like figure of the Chinaman perched between his shoulders, bending forward the wicked yellow fingers at work, tightening, tightening, tightening the strangling cord. Uttering a loud cry of horror, I went racing along the gangway which projected actually over the moving Thames' waters and gained the wharf. But, swift as I had been, another had been swifter. A tall figure, despite the brilliant moon, I doubted the evidence of my sight, wearing a tweed overcoat and a soft-felt hat with a brim turned down, sprang up from nowhere as it seemed, swooped upon the horrible figure squatting simian-esque between Smith's shoulder blades and grasped him by the neck. I pulled up shortly, one foot set upon the wharf. The newcomer was the double of Nailand Smith. Seemingly exerting no effort whatever, he lifted the strangler in that remorseless grasp so that the Chinaman's hands, after one quick convulsive upward movement, hung limply beside him like the paws of a rat in the grip of a terrier. You damned, murderous swine, I heard in a repressed savage undertone. The knife failed, so now the cord has an innings. Go after your pal. Releasing one hand from the neck of the limp figure, the speaker grasped the Chinaman by his loose smock-like garment, swung him back once a mighty swing, and hurled him far out into the river as one might hurl a sack of rubbish. End of Chapter 22. CHAPTER 23. A Rest of Samarkand. As the High-God's willed, explained Nailand Smith, tenderly massaging his throat, Mr. Facide, having just left the docks, chanced to pass along three Colt Street on Wednesday night at exactly the hour that I was expected. The resemblance between us is rather marked, and the coincidence of dress completed the illusion that devilish Eurasian woman's army who has escaped us again—of course, you recognised her—made a very natural mistake. Mr. Facide, however, made no mistake. I glanced at the chief officer of the Andaman who sat in an armchair in our new chambers, contentedly smoking a black charoute. Heaven has blessed me with a pair of useful hands, said the seaman, grimly, extending his horny palms. I've an old score to settle against those yellow eyes. Poor George and I were twins. He referred to his brother who had been foully done to death by one of the creatures of Dr. Fu Man Chu. It beats me how Mr. Smith got on the track, he added. Bure inspiration, murmured Nailand Smith, glancing aside from the siphon wherewith he was now busy. The define of latest, the same whereby Petrie solved the Zigazang cryptogram. But, concluded Facide, I am indebted to you for an opportunity of meeting the Chinese strangler and sending him to join the Burmese knife-expert. Such then were the episodes that led to the arrest of Monsieur Samokan, and my duty as a narrator of these strange matters now bears me on to the morning when Nailand Smith was hastily summoned to the prison into which the villainous Greek had been cast. We were shown immediately into the Governor's room and were invited by that much disturbed official to be seated. The news which he had to impart was sufficiently startling. Samokan was dead. I have Warden Morrison's statement here, said Colonel Warrington. If you will be good enough to read it. Nailand Smith rose abruptly and began to pace up and down the little office. Through the open window I had a glimpse of a stooping figure in convict garb engaged in liming the flowerbeds of the prison Governor's garden. As you'd like to see this Warden Morrison personally, snapped my friend, very good, replied the Governor, pressing the bell-push placed close beside his table. A man entered to stand rigidly at attention just within the doorway. Send Morrison here, ordered Colonel Warrington. The man saluted and withdrew. As the door was reclosed the Colonel sat drumming his fingers upon the table. Nailand Smith walked restlessly about tugging at the lobe of his ear, and I absently watched the convict gardener pursuing his toils. Shortly sounded a rap at the door and Come in! cried Colonel Warrington. A man wearing Warden's uniform appeared, saluted the Governor, and stood glancing uneasily from the Colonel to Smith. The latter had now ceased his perambulations, and one elbow resting upon the mantelpiece was staring at Morrison, his penetrating grey eyes as hard-ass steel. Colonel Warrington twisted his chair around, fixing his monocle more closely in its place. He had the wiry white moustache and fiery red face of the old-style Anglo-Indian officer. Morrison, he said, Commissioner Nailand Smith has some questions to put to you. The man's uneasiness palpably was growing by leaps and bounds. He was a tall and intelligent-looking fellow of military build, though spare for his height and of unhealthy complexion. His eyes were curiously dull, and their pupils interested me professionally from the very moment of his entrance. You were in charge of the prisoner Samarkand? began Smith harshly. Yes, sir, Morrison replied. Were you the first to learn of his death? I was, sir. I looked through the grill in the door and saw him lying on the floor of the cell. What time was it? Half past four a.m. What did you do? I went into the cell and then sent for the head-water. You realized at once that Samarkand was dead? At once, yes. Were you surprised? Nailand Smith subtly changed the tone of his voice in asking the last question, and it was evident that the veiled significance of the words was not lost upon Morrison. Well, sir, he began, and cleared his throat nervously. Yes or no, snapped Smith. Morrison still hesitated, and I saw his underlip twitch. Nailand Smith, taking two long strides, stood immediately in front of him, glaring grimly into his face. This is your chance, he said emphatically. I shall not give you another. You had met Samarkand before? Morrison hung his head for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists. Then he looked up swiftly, and the light of a new resolution was in his eyes. I'll take the chance, sir, he said, speaking with some emotion, and I hope, sir, turning momentarily to Colonel Warrington, that you'll be as lenient as you can, for I didn't know there was any harm in what I did. I didn't expect any leniency from me, cried the Colonel. If there has been a breach of discipline, there will be punishment, rely upon it. I admit the breach of discipline, pursued the man doggedly, but I want to say, here and now, that I have no more idea than anybody else about how the Smith snapped his fingers irritably. The facts, the facts, he demanded. What you don't know cannot help us. Well, sir, said Morrison, clearing his throat again. When the prisoner Samarkand was admitted, and I put him safely into his cell, he told me that he suffered from heart trouble, that he'd had an attack when he was arrested, and that he thought he was threatened with another, which might kill him. One moment, interrupted Smith. Is this confirmed by the police officer who made the arrest? It is, sir, replied Colonel Warrington, swinging his chair around and consulting some papers upon his table. The prisoner was overcome by famous, when the officer showed him the warrant, and asked to be given some cognac from the decanter which stood in his room. This was administered, and he then entered the cab, which the officer had waiting. He was taken to Bow Street, remanded, and brought here in accordance with someones instructions. My instructions, said Smith, go on, Morrison. He told me, continued Morrison more steadily, that he suffered from something that sounded to me like apoplexy. Catalypsy, I suggested, for I was beginning to see the light. That's it, sir. He said he was afraid of being buried alive. He asked me as a favour if he should die in prison to go to a friend of his, and get a syringe with which to inject some stuff that would do away with all chance of his coming to life again after burial. You had no right to talk to the prisoner! roared Colonel Warrington. I know that, sir, but you'll admit that the circumstances were peculiar. Anyway, he died in the night, sure enough, and from heart failure according to the doctor. I managed to get a couple of hours leave in the evening, and I went and fetched the syringe and a little tube of yellow stuff. Do you understand, Petrie? cried Nailand Smith, his eyes blazing with excitement. Do you understand? Perfectly. It's more than I do, sir, continued Morrison, but as I was explaining, I brought the little syringe back with me and I filled it from the tube. The body was lying in the mortuary, which you've seen, and the door not being locked. It was easy for me to slip in there for a moment. I didn't fancy the job, but it was soon done. I threw the syringe and tube over the wall into the lane outside, as I'd been told to do. What part of the wall, asked Smith, behind the mortuary? That's where they were waiting. I cried excitedly. The building used as a mortuary is quite isolated, and it would not be a difficult matter for someone hiding in the lane outside to throw one of those ladders of silk and bamboo across the top of the wall. But my good sir, interrupted the governor erasively, willst I admit the possibility to which you allude? I do not admit that a dead man, and a heavy one at that, can be carried up a ladder of silk and bamboo. Yet on the evidence of my own eyes, the body of a prisoner Sam O'Cann was removed from the mortuary last night. That signal to me to pursue the subject no further, and indeed I realized that it would have been no easy matter to render the amazing truth evident to a man of the Colonel's type of mind, but to me the facts of the case were now clear enough. That Fumanchou possessed a preparation for producing artificial catalepsy of a sort indistinguishable from death I was well aware. A dose of this unknown drug had doubtless been contained in the cognac, if indeed the decanter had held cognac, that the prisoner had drunk at the time of his arrest. The yellow stuff spoken of by Morrison I recognized as the antidote, another secret of the brilliant Chinese doctor, a portion of which I had once some years before actually had in my possession. The dead man had not been carried up the ladder, he had climbed up. Now, Morrison, snapped Naelyn Smith, you have acted wisely thus far, make a clean breast of it. How much were you paid for the job? Twenty pounds, sir, answered the man promptly, and I'd have done it for less, because I could see no harm in it. The prisoner being dead, and this is his last request. And who paid you? Now we will come to the nub of the matter, as the change in the man's face revealed. He hesitated momentarily, and Colonel Warrington brought his fist down on the table with a bang. Morrison made a sort of gesture of resignation at that, and when I was in the army, sir, stationed at Cairo, he said slowly, I regret to confess that I formed a drug habit. Opium? snapped Smith. No, sir, hashish. Good God! Go on! There's a place in Soho, just off Frith Street, where hashish is supplied, and I go there sometimes. Mr. Samarkhan used to come and bring people with him from the Nuluv Hotel, I believe. That's where I met him. The exact address, demanded Smith. Café de l'Egypte. But the hashish is only sold upstairs, and no one is allowed up that isn't known personally to Ishmael. Who is this Ishmael? The proprietor of the café. He's a Greek Jew of Salonica, an old woman used to attend to the customers upstairs, but during the last few months a young one has sometimes taken her place. What is she like, I asked eagerly. She has very fine eyes, and that's about all I can tell you, sir, because she wears a yash-mak. Last night there were two women there, both veiled, though. Two women? Hope and fear entered my heart. That Caramino was again in the power of the Chinese doctor I knew to my sorrow. Could it be that the Café de l'Egypte was the place of her captivity? End of Chapter 23. 24 Café de l'Egypte. I could see that Naylon Smith counted the escape of the prisoner but a trivial matter by comparison with the discovery to which it had led us. That the Soho Café should prove to be, if not the headquarters at least a regular resort of Dr. Fu Manchu, was not too much to hope. The usefulness of such a haunt was evident enough, since it might conveniently be employed as a place of rendezvous for orientals, and furthermore enable the cunning Chinaman to establish relations with persons likely to prove of service to him. Finally he had used an East End opium den for this purpose, and, later, the resort known as the Joy Shop. Soho, here the two, had remained outside the radius of his activity, but that he should have embraced it at last was not surprising. For Soho is the Montmartre of London, and a land of many secrets. Why, demanded Naylon Smith, have I never been told of the existence of this place? That simple enough, answered Inspector Weymouth, although we knew of this Café de l'Egypte. We never had the slightest trouble there. It's a Bohemian resort, where members of the French colony, some of the Chelsea art people, professional models, and others of that sort, for gather at night. I've been there myself, as a matter of fact, and I've seen people well known in the artistic world come in. It has much the same cleantel as, say, the Café Royal, with a rather heavier sprinkling of Hindu students, Japanese, and so forth. It's celebrated for Turkish coffee. What do you know of this Ismael? Nothing much. He's Levantine Jew. And something more, added Smith, surveying himself in the mirror, and turning to nod his satisfaction, to the well-known Perucier, whose services were sometimes requisitioned by the police authorities. We were ready for our visit to the Café de l'Egypte, and Smith having deemed it inadvisable that we should appear there openly, we had been transformed under the adroit manipulation of Foster into a pair of futurists, oddly unlike our actual selves. No wigs, no false moustaches had been employed. A change of costume and a few deft touches of some water-colour paint had rendered us unrecognisable by our most intimate friends. It was all very fantastic, very reminiscent of Christmas charades, that the Fars had a grim, murderous undercurrent, the life of one dearer to me than life itself hung upon our success. The swamping of the white world by yellow hordes might well be the price of our failure. Smith left us at the corner of Frith Street. This was no more than a reconnaissance, but— I shall be within hail if I wanted, said the Burley detective, and although we stood not in Chinatown, but in the heart of Bohemian London, with popular restaurants about us, I was glad to know that we had so staunch an ally in reserve. The shadow of the great Chinaman was upon me, that strange subconscious voice with which I had become familiar in the past, awoke within me to-night, not by logic, but by prescience. I knew that the yellow doctor was near. Two minutes' walk brought us to the door of the café. The upper half was of glass, neatly curtained, as were the windows on either side of it, and above the establishment appeared the words, Café de Legite. Between the second and third word was inserted a gilded device representing the crescent of Islam. We entered. On our right was a room furnished with marble-top tables, cane-seated chairs, and plush-covered lounges set against the walls. The air was heavy with tobacco smoke. Evidently the café was full, although the night was young. Smith immediately made for the upper end of the room. It was not large, and at first glance I thought that there was no vacant place. Presently, however, I aspired two unoccupied chairs, and these we took, finding ourselves facing a pale, bespectacled young man, with long, fair hair and faded eyes, whose companion, a bold brunette, was smoking one of the largest cigarettes I had ever seen in a golden amber cigar-holder. A very commonplace Swiss waiter took our orders for coffee, and we began discreetly to survey our surroundings. The only touch of oriental colour thus far perceptible in the café de Legite was provided by a red-capped Egyptian behind a narrow counter who presided over the coffee-pots. The patrons of the establishment were in every way typical of Soho, and in the bulk differed not at all from those of the better known café restaurants. There were several Easterns present, but Smith, having given each of them a searching glance, turned to me with a slight shrug of disappointment. Coffee being placed before us, we sat sipping the thick sugary beverage, smoking cigarettes, and vainly seeking for some clue to guide us to the inner sanctuary consecrated to Hashish. It was maddening to think that caramina might be somewhere concealed in the building, whilst I sat there inert amongst this gathering whose conversation was of abnormalities in art, music, and literature. Then suddenly the pale young man seated opposite paid his bill, and with a word of farewell to his companion went out of the café. He did not make his exit by the door through which we entered, but passed up the crowded room to the counter whereat the Egyptian presided. From someplace hidden in the rear emerged a black-haired swarthy man, with whom the other exchanged a few words. The pale young artist raised his wide-brimmed hat and was gone through a curtain doorway on the left side of the counter. As he opened it I had a glimpse of a narrow court beyond, then the door was closed again, and I found myself thinking of the peculiar eyes of the departed visitor. Even through the thick pebbles of his spectacles, although for some reason I had thought little of a matter at the time, his oddly contracted pupils were noticeable, as the girl in turn rose and left the café, but by the ordinary door I turned to Smith. That man, I began, and paused. Smith was watching covertly a Hindu seated at a neighbouring table who was about to settle his bill. Standing up the Hindu maid for the coffee counter, the swarthy man appeared out of the opening, and the Asiatic visitor went out by the door opening into the court. One quick glance Smith gave me and raised his hand for the waiter. A few minutes later we were out in the street again. We must find our way to that court, snapped my friend. Let us try back. I knitted a sorter alleyway which we passed just before reaching the café. You think the hashish den is in some adjoining building? I don't know where it is, Petrie, but I know the way to it. Into a narrow gloomy court we plunged, hemmed in by high walls and following it for ten yards or more, and even narrower and less inviting turning revealed itself on the left. We pursued our way and presently found ourselves at the back door of the café de Legitte. There's the door, I said. It opened into a tiny cul-de-sac flanked by dilapidated hoardings, and no other door of any kind was visible in the vicinity. Nail and Smith stood tugging at the lobe of his ear almost savagely. Where the devil did they go? he whispered. Even as he spoke the words came a gleam of light through the upper curtain part of the door, and I distinctly saw a figure of a man in silhouette. Swung back, snapped Smith. We crouched back against the dirty wall of the court, and watched a strange thing happen. The back door of the café de Legitte opened outward, simultaneously a door hitherto invisible, set at right angles in the hoarding adjoining, opened inward. A man emerged from the café and entered the secret doorway. As he did so the café door swung back, and closed the door in the hoarding. Very good, mutton Nail and Smith. Our friend Ishmael behind the counter moved some lever which causes the opening of one door automatically to open the other. Failing his kindly offices, the second exit from the café de Legitte is innocent enough. Now what is the next move? I have an idea, Smith! I cried. According to Morrison the place in which the hashit may be obtained has no windows, but is lighted from above. No doubt it was built for a studio and has a glass roof. Therefore, come along, Snap Smith, grasping my arm, you have solved the difficulty, Petrie. End of Chapter 24. CHAPTER 25 The House of Hashish Along the leads from Fifth Street we worked our perilous way. From the top landing of a French restaurant we had gained access, by means of a trap to the roof of the building. Now the busy streets of Soho were below me, and I clung dizzily to telephone standards and smoke stacks, rarely venturing to glance downward upon the cosmopolitan throng, surging, dwarfish, in the lighted depths. Sometimes the bulky figure of Inspector Weymouth would loom up grotesquely against the star sprinkled blue as he paused to take breath. The next moment Nail and Smith would be leading the way again, and I would find myself contemplating some sheer well of blackness, with nausea threatening me because it had to be negotiated. None of these gaps were more than a long stride from side to side, but the sense of depth conveyed in the muffled voices and dimmed footsteps from the pavements far below was almost overpowering. Indeed I am convinced that for my part I should never have essayed that nightmare journey, where it not that the musical voice of Karamina seemed to be calling to me, her little white hands to be seeking mine, blindly in the darkness. That we were close to a haunt of the dreadful Chinaman, I was persuaded therefore my hatred and my love cooperated to lend me a coolness and address which otherwise I must have lacked. Hello! cried Smith, who was leaving what now? We had crept along the crown of a sloping roof and were confronted by the blank wall of a building which rose a story higher than that of joining it. It was crowned by an iron railing showing blackly against the sky. I paused, breathing heavily, and seated astride that dizzy perch. Weymouth was immediately behind me, Anne. It's the café de la Jeepte, Mr. Smith, he said. If you look up you'll see the reflection of the light shining through the glass roof. Vaguely I discerned Nail and Smith rising to his feet. Be careful, I said, for God's sake, don't slip. Take my hand, he snapped energetically. I stretched forward and grasped his hand. As I did so he slid down the slope on the right, away from the street, and hung perilously for a moment over the very cul-de-sac upon which the secret door opened. Good, he muttered, there is, as I had hoped, a window lighting the top of the staircase. Sh! Sh! His grip upon my hand tightened, and there aloft above the teamful streets of Soho I sat listening, whilst very faint and muffled footsteps sounded upon an uncarpeted stare, a door banged, and all was silent again, save for the ceaseless turmoil far below. It tight and catch, wrapped Smith. Into my extended hands he swung his boots, fastened together by the laces. There ere I could frame any protest, he disengaged his hand from mine, and pressing his body close against the angle of the building, worked his way around to the staircase window, which was invisible from where I crouched. Heavens, muttered Weymouth close to my ear, I could never travel that road. Nor I was my scarcely audible answer. In an anguish of fearful anticipation I listened for the cry and the dull thud, which should proclaim the fate of my intrepid friend, but no such sounds came to me. Some thirty seconds passed in this fashion, when a subdued call from above caused me to start and look aloft. Nalyn Smith was peering down from the railing on the roof. Mind your head, he warned, and over the rail swung the end of a light wooden ladder, lowering it until it rested upon the crest astride of which I sat. Up you come, then Weymouth. Last Smith held the top firmly, I climbed up rung by rung, not daring to think of what lay below. My relief, when at last I grasped the railing, climbed over and found myself upon a wooden platform, was truly inexpressible. Come on, Weymouth, wrapped Nalyn Smith, his ladder has to be lowered back down to the trap before another visitor arrives. Taking short staccato breaths at every step Inspector Weymouth ascended, ungainly, that frail and moving stare. Right beside me he wiped the perspiration from his face and forehead. I wouldn't do that again for a hundred pounds, he said hoarsely. You don't have to, Snatsmith. Back he hauled the ladder, shouldered it, and stepping to a square opening and one corner of the rickety platform lowered it cautiously down. Have you a knife for the corkscrew in it? He demanded. Weymouth had one, which he produced. Nalyn Smith screwed it into the weather-worn frame, and by that means reclosed the trap door softly then. Look, he said. There is the house of Hashish. End of chapter twenty-